


background noise

by wildcard_47



Series: we watch the stars [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: And Accidentally Affect Some Things, Aziraphale Says Scrumptious, Crowley Thinks Aziraphale IS Scrumptious, Food Porn, Ineffable Husbands Visit The Arctic, M/M, Making Out, wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: In which Aziraphale pledges not to interfere too much with history, prattles about food, and inspires rather warm feelings in a certain demonic counterpart.“Oh, my dear Crowley, I am no longer thinking about crepes, obviously,” Aziraphale sighed. The breath was so deep and gusty it split a small path along the ice ridge nearest their feet. Inside the nearby magnetic observation hut, the two officers were now talking amiably about the worst dishes they’d ever eaten during their tenure in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. “I’m thinking aboutle valle de los naranjos. Seventeen twenty two. Do you remember it?”"Vividly," answered Crowley. His eyes had darkened to a rather appropriate orange.





	background noise

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Queen's "Radio Ga Ga."

**1847**

**KING WILLIAM ISLAND**

**A THURSDAY**

 

“Angel, what the hell are you  _ wearing? _ ” was the first rather profane exclamation to pass Crowley’s lips, as his immortal adversary walked closer.

Frowning, Aziraphale tugged at a lapel, one white-gloved hand smoothing rather self-consciously over dark wool. In the shifting green and blue light now rippling across the Arctic sky, the gold anchor buttons shone like little stars, enhanced by the pale sheen of the ice. “As always, my dear Crowley, I have _standards_ , even at the edge of the world. If you must know, one of the officers and I now share the same tailor. Noticed the design at the last formal gathering of the Admiralty and simply had to try it. Jennings does such excellent work, truly.”

“Wouldn’t keep an active volcano warm in a stiff breeze.” Peering past the dark expanse of ice, only broken up by the shadow of two tall ships looming in the distance, Crowley made a disgusted noise. “And neither will  _ that. _ ”

He jerked his chin toward the frightful-looking lean-to sitting just a mile or so beyond the ships, which the Discovery Service, bless them, had named a  _ magnetic observation hut.  _ Aziraphale did not have the heart to tell them that one could observe magnetic properties from a variety of places apart from a hastily-built homestead, and observe them quite handily at that, but alas, such were the rules. No interfering.

“If you don’t stop going all moon-eyed over that damned coat, I’m leaving,” snarled Crowley, a sentiment which was echoed heartily and full-throatedly by the Irishman currently puttering around inside the magnetic observation hut.

“But I was not thinking about the coat at all,” protested Aziraphale, as his own counterpart repeated these words. He sighed; the link was broken. “I was thinking about crepes, if you must know.”

“Crepes,” repeated Crowley, flat. “Why?”

“Because, my dear Crowley, short of adopting the diet of the local indigenous peoples, which is fascinating and nutritious but not particularly concerned with the combinations of extraordinary  _ flavors,  _ as a result, I am now reminiscing rather beautifully on the dishes many of these explorers find most comforting.” Aziraphale smiled as softly as he might have upon reflecting on a particularly adorable box of second editions, tilting his gaze toward the tall ships. “Lieutenant Little: his mother’s Christmas chicken, eighteen thirty four. Steward Jopson: a piece of half-melted chocolate he won at a fair as a boy. Ice Master Blanky:  _ oh,  _ Crowley, he recalls the taste of a fresh coconut in summer, while Commander….”

_ “Francis,” _ came a voice from within the hut, as clear as a bell toll on a cloudless summer day,  _ “have you ever dined à la Chinoise?” _

Crowley’s frown was not amused, not angry, but the frown of an immortal being who has not yet pinned down a final course of action. “Angel, if you’re gonna stand there and make me hungry enough to guzzle down gobs of whale fat, you can forget it.”

_ “What,”  _ came a second, gravelly huff from within.

Aziraphale, suddenly realizing that his musings on crepes had inspired the two persons nearest them, quickly tried to redirect his thoughts to no avail. Where  _ had _ he given over his flaming sword near the Eastern Gate? Why should Crowley have cut his dark hair so severely when he had such lovely long curls – for a demon, obviously, for a demon. What merited the human obsession to go barging across the world in inferior technologies when they still had no idea of the dangers such a world contained?

_ “Soups and stews of birds'-nests, beche-de-mer, sea-slugs, and other delicacies. Patties of shrimps fried in pork-fat, salted and boiled eggs, and boiled and stewed vegetables. Salt, pepper, soy, and oil surrounding every part of the table. Warm wines in small metal pots and poured into tiny China cups…” _

_ “Why the hell are you blathering on about Chinaman food, Fitzjames?” _

A pause, no more than a second.  _ “Well, I…I don’t know what sorts of fare Diggle is presently serving on  _ Terror,  _ but on her sister ship, Wall has been required to, ah, become rather more creative by the day. And he is not a man well-suited to improvisational cooking.” _

_ “Ah, _ ” came the answer, with a soft, amused huff.  _ “Tired of biscuits, are you?” _

Crowley smiled; his white teeth gleamed viciously in the flickering light. “Angel, if you keep talking about  _ crepes _ , you’re really not gonna like what happens next.”

“Oh, my dear Crowley, I am no longer thinking about  _ crepes,  _ obviously.” And now, Aziraphale sighed, so deep and gusty it split a small path along the ice ridge nearest their feet. Inside the magnetic hut, the two officers were now talking amiably about the worst dishes they’d ever eaten during their tenure in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. One of them, poor soul, had been forced to endure a turnip and dried parsley pudding on a well-docked vessel, on  _ Christmas. _ “I’m thinking about  _ le valle de los naranjos.  _ Seventeen twenty two. Do you remember it?”

“Vividly.”

“Mmph. Oh, just the scent on the air. Exquisite.” Aziraphale sighed again, high and quiet this time, no more than an errant breeze stirring the canvas. He recalled the thick perfume lingering in his all-too-human nose. How, when he peeled the fruit, small flecks of its pith got caught under his fingernails, made his hands sweet and sticky with their oil and accidentally spritzed a bit on his coat. He’d miracled it away, but still caught the scent of oranges on his lapel for nearly a decade afterward, each time he turned left. “Our little lunch in the field. Rustic. Simple.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s irises had darkened from their usual serpentine yellow to a rather appropriate orange. “Another time.”

“No, no, Crowley, I shan’t be pooh-poohed by your demonic pessimism. I am merely trying to bring the most  _ beautiful _ thoughts to these poor men’s minds, if only for a moment.” And, he admitted only to himself, perhaps so he could spend additional time recalling his favorite Spanish lunch in nearly three hundred years. “The rich tang of Madeira, drunk straight from the bottle. Creamy soft cheese and  _ sobrassada  _ spread on freshly-baked bread—crisp, strong crust—soft as a fresh sponge inside.  _ Trampó  _ mixed with just a pinch of salt. And the  _ oranges, Crowley _ , tart and sweet and smooth all at once _. _ ” He shivered, although he was not cold. A loud, ragged noise escaped from his throat as he recalled the way he had sucked the juice from his fingers. So messy. So very human.  _ “Scrumptious. _ ”

He glanced over at Crowley merely to receive acknowledgement of this little lunch’s profundity, or perhaps even to receive a giant smirking grin, accompanied by some enormously erroneous proclamation like  _ you’ve got it all wrong.  _ But on this occasion, Crowley said nothing, merely stared at Aziraphale from behind his tinted spectacles, wordless, his mouth open slightly although no sound had yet emerged from it.

And then Crowley leapt into action, all swinging hips and loose-limbed arms; he yanked Aziraphale forward by both lapels, with such force that Aziraphale had only enough time to think  _ I wonder if he smells oranges, also, _ before Crowley slotted his mouth over his.

_ Oh.  _ Aziraphale trembled at the utter heat of this single touch, then realized he had exclaimed aloud as Crowley’s hands, forever as primordial as the day he was created, slid up those same lapels and then beneath them, spanning his chest and then around his luxurious waistcoat. “Oh,  _ Crawley.” _

This exhalation coaxed out a shudder from the demon, so deep and full-bodied the ice shook beneath their feet.  _ Don’t  _ tempt  _ me. _

Just as Aziraphale was struck by this puzzling thought— _ how would one possibly go about tempting a demon? _ —Crowley finally pulled away, breathing heavily.

“‘S all right, angel.” He appeared rather unsteady on his feet, but then again, Aziraphale was in a similar state of dishevelment. Lord, touching Crowley in this heathen manner had him quite flummoxed. “I—’M not trying to— _ win _ , or anything like that.”

Aziraphale could hardly hear over the wind rushing in his ears and the now-rather-passionate noises issuing out from the observation hut, inaudible to the human ear but crystalline to both immortals. 

Oh, dear. Perhaps they had influenced more than they ought, in the end. 

In truth, he was not fully certain of the difference between merely participating in an ineffable game with an unknown victor and participating without the intent to win—as both choices seemed identical—but if anyone should be mindful of their diction and the parsings of meaning at a time like this, it was he. “You—you do not desire this game, then?” he asked.

Crowley’s eyes flashed a fierce orange, then flickered back to their usual full-moon-yellow, pupils widening in surprise. “Oh, angel.”

His hands still spanned Aziraphale’s ribs. Aziraphale flushed hot, and stepped backwards, so Crowley’s fingers merely trailed against his coat again. “No, no. Of course, my dear Crowley. It—imagine what either of our sides might say to such an unusual agreement. Or—or rather, a secondary agreement. Pursuant to the first of which they are unaware. They would—” he floundered for words, “I mean, I imagine yours alone might—”

“Angel,” repeated Crawley, voice low and stern. He smoothed flat palms down the front of Aziraphale’s coat, and in the blink of an eye, pinned him to the nearest pressure ridge. “Shut up for a minute.”

Several minutes later, they were interrupted by two humans dressed all in fur, an older man and young woman. Both were accompanied by  _ Tuunqaq _ —a fearsome-looking creature with the head of a man and the body of an overgrown bear. Much more intelligent than many of the humans sent to commune with it, although these two appeared to be the exception.

_ Suvit?  _ demanded the young woman, without speaking aloud.

“Oh, my goodness,” yelped Aziraphale, with as much dignity as one could expect to offer in such a situation, given that one was rather occupied in grasping a demon’s hair and also had that same demon attached to one’s bare neck. 

(His beautiful lace kerchief: nowhere to be found!)

Crowley, as tetchy as ever when he was interrupted, whipped around to glare at the others, transmogrified his head into that of a vicious Almaz and roared back an answer, full-throated. Harsh.  _ Very _ profane.

“Bugger,” muttered Aziraphale.

The  _ Tuunqaq  _ roared back, the humans recoiled, and off the immortals popped.

“I don’t think I should have talked so much about food,” Aziraphale noted later, over a positively delicious serving of rhubarb pie in a little pub just off the High Street of St. John’s Wood. He closed his eyes to savor the last bite, and when he opened them, was rather surprised to notice Crowley following the movement of the fork back down to the plate. “Seems rather rude to have made the men hungry, don’t you think?”

“Wouldn’t think too much about it, angel,” said the demon, scratching at the back of his neck with an expression Aziraphale could only describe as  _ abashed _ . “Sure my people’ve got better things to do than hang out in the  _ His- _ forsaken Arctic.”

“Yes.  _ Yes.” _ Aziraphale patted his mouth with his napkin, feeling very confident about this proclamation. “As do mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I've committed a crossover. Hello, and welcome to this mashup of Arctic nonsense! Good Omens fans, I have another fic planned for you. Terror fans, y'all know my brand of crazy already. Read on!
> 
> Glossary:  
>  _sobrassada_ : a type of spiced pork popular in the Balearic Islands  
>  _trampó_ : a Balearic tomato, onion, and green pepper salad tossed with oil and a pinch of salt  
>  _Almaz_ : a vicious [Mongol mythical beast](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Almaz_\(mythical_beast\)), meaning "forest-man" (fun fact: the tall ships mentioned here were described as a "forest in ice" by an Inuit character in _The Terror_
> 
> Last but not least, Commander Fitzjames's long tangent on Chinese food is taken from [this diary entry](http://www.theoldfoodie.com/2014/01/dinner-in-chinese-tavern-in-1840s.html) from a British Naval Officer in the early 1840s. It's not a perfect 1:1, but close enough!


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